Monuments
by Silver Sandals
Summary: A monument, an exhibition, and a conversation. Some of the older nations aren't all that content with America's idealization of Rome.


Why did no one tell me the html was weird? Fixed, anyhow.

Title: Monuments  
Characters: America, France, Greece, England, and Rome, who isn't actually in the story. Probably.  
Written for the Hetalia Rarepair Exchange on livejournal. Original prompt: _"Something on the influence Rome has had on America, the presence of Rome-inspired symbols/architecture/art in prominent areas throughout the US, and how America likes the ideas of Rome a little too much for the comfort of the countries who remember the Roman Empire way back when. _I apologize for this fic not being about this very much at all. Except for the ways in which it absolutely is.  
Words: 1,752  
Rating: PG, but with implied politics.  
Timestamp: 1886-1901.

* * *

_1886, New York City_

It's a beautiful day in Manhattan, or as beautiful as it ever gets in the Big Apple. At least America thinks it is. It's a beautiful day because the streets are filled with people and the air smells like fried food and most of all because France is here! America feels like skipping but he doesn't because France would probably think it unsophisticated. So instead they're strolling, arm in arm, and France seems really impressed by everything, which makes America feel all warm inside.

They're walking next to the harbor, which okay, doesn't smell that great but they're walking this way so America can look out to Ellis Island and marvel at the construction going on nearby.

"She's going to be so gorgeous, France, I mean seriously, gosh, that artist of yours is incredible!"

"Frederic Auguste Bartholdi."

"Yeah, him. Well, anyway, I've seen the plans, and it's beautiful, France. Really, it's incredible. It's the best present anyone's ever given me! Well. It's up there, anyway."

This is weird- France looks almost sad. It must be just a trick of the light or something though, because how could anyone be sad on a beautiful day like this?

"America," France says, "Lady Liberty is a fickle lover."

"I know _that,_" America says scornfully.

He doesn't, really.

* * *

_1897, Nashville_

"-this is great, isn't it? Wait till you see this thing though! It's the best part! I want to show you this especially! You'll love it!"

"If you say so," Greece replies. America's grip on his wrist is tight. The Tennessee night is as bright as day, lit up by millions of electric lights, splitting the darkness into fractal patterns. The moon is hiding behind a thick blanket of clouds, probably ashamed at being so replaced. The glow shimmers in the lake, and reflects off the lenses of America's glasses. "I'm sorry, America," Greece finally manages to say. "I don't really understand."

"It's about progress!" America shouts excitedly. "My progress! 'Cause things haven't been so good around here lately, I mean ever since the war people have been feeling a bit blue, you know? So I'm going to show everyone what I'm all about!"

"Which is?"

"Modern stuff! New replacing old! Everyone wants change, Greece. That's cause I want it, and they all want to be a part of me. They all want to be new! New women, new Negroes, new people. That's what I always am, Greece- reinvention and all that. I'm whatever they want me to be! That's 'cause I'm the land of opportunity."

"Oh," Greece says.

They're passing exhibits with signs declaring "Agriculture!" or "Commerce!" One exhibit showed a sad-looking mule harnessed to a cotton press, providing a "striking contrast!" with a bulky steam-powered machine. Greece stares at these things with a strange kind of fascination.

"Here we are!" America proclaims proudly, grinning smugly, glasses entirely reflective in the blasting white light radiating from-

It's the Parthenon. Except it isn't. It isn't a ruin, isn't strewn with rubble or bits of statues; it's complete, shining with that unnatural light, Doric columns upright in beautiful _entasis_, subtly curving _stylobate_ undented, tapering walls of the _naos_ a marvel of strength and geometry.

"It's actually made out of wood and plaster, not marble, but it looks pretty authentic, don't you think?" America blathers.

Greece resists the urge to punch him in the face.

"The Parthenon doesn't look like this," he says instead.

America's face falls. "Really?"

"It's ruined."

"Oh." America laughs at Greece's ignorance. "Well that wouldn't be very cheerful, would it? Ruins are for declining states! I'm on the rise!"

Greece stares at him. "America," he says. "Do you remember _why _the Parthenon is in ruins?"

America blinks. "I wasn't born yet. That's ancient history, man."

"You should go look it up," Greece tells him. "You might learn something."

"Okay, sure, man," America says, bored with the conversation already. "Hey, let's go check out the gondolas on the lake!"

"I'm sorry," Greece says. "I'm tired. I think I should be going home now."

"Oh," America says, "that's a shame."

* * *

_1901, Washington D.C._

The National Mall is undergoing renovation. Therefore state not-quite-business has been relegated to the lawn in front of the Capitol building. The Congress is not in session right now, and it is eerily quiet. America lounges on the grass, a blade between his teeth, attempting to whistle "Clementine". England sits, his collar loosened, and observes the architecture.

"I think the new dome is an improvement," he pronounces after a while.

America stops whistling to snort, resentfully.

"Of course, all the renovations were built with slave labor, weren't they?" he adds, a touch viciously. "That's what built the 'Paris of the South'."

There is a pause before America replies, "Yeah, well, my little Southern friend's gone now for good. The slaves have all been freed for fifty years now, Iggy."

"Forty-six," England corrects, snidely.

"Whatever, England, the point is, you're missing the point. The point is that I am _over it. _Moving on. Striding forward to meet my bright new destiny. And so are the Negroes. Any one of 'em can walk with pride down the street in this very city whenever he wants."

"Yes, in their own segregated neighborhoods," England snaps.

"Shut up," America groans, rolling over.

England waits. It appears nothing further is forthcoming. "I was under the impression that you had invited me here to talk, America."

America sits up, brushing blades of grass out of his hair. "Yeah. I did."

"Well, I'm listening."

America doesn't say anything.

England coughs tactfully.

"Shut up," America says automatically. "It's just- it's hard to know where to start, you know? I guess- I've been under a lot of stress lately. What with all those islands and things I got from Spain."

"Mmm-hmm," England says, attempting to sound bored out of his skull.

"I mean, I think me and Cuba have a deal now, but he hates me, I don't even know why. He's kind of scary. Not that I'm scared. Because I'm too big and awesome to be scared. But other people might be. Like Canada. Canada would probably pee his pants if he ever had to talk to Cuba."

"Don't be vulgar, America," England scolds tiredly.

"Well so anyway, everyone's been jerks to me about it. Like they don't want me defending myself, making my own decisions about my own stuff. Like they don't want me to do _anything _without asking them first. And you haven't been standing up for me. I thought we were allies."

"Oh I _see,_" England says, realizing with relief that what's going on is perfectly ordinary and familiar. "You called me here to whine at me. It never occurred to you that maybe the Continent doesn't exactly _listen _to me."

_"No," _America denies vehemently. "No, it's just- like I said, I've been under a lot of pressure lately. And, well, maybe that's why. I mean."

"Why what, America?" England says exasperatedly.

"I've been having these weird dreams."

This is unexpected. Not America having weird dreams. He's always talking about his stupid weird dreams, volunteering information whenever absolutely unnecessary and annoying- "Hey guys, you'll never believe my weird dream last night, Italy was in a gunfight with George Washington and he bled tomato sauce", or "Hey guys, last night I dreamed this moving pictures star got elected president- isn't that weird?" He usually never shuts up about it. But this dream he's reluctant to talk about.

"I'm listening," England repeats.

"I keep dreaming about this man. He's shorter than me, but more, you know, muscly. He's got brown hair and brown eyes and brownish skin, and he's wearing this really heavy armor that's all beat up. And sometimes I'm just floating there looking at him, and he sees me and grins at me, very friendly but kind of scary, and he says "Hey there, little nation, want to be a big Empire like me someday?" And- England, hey, are you okay?"

"I'm fine," England manages to say.

"You just turned really white there. It was kind of freaky."

"It's just- someone said that to me once," England explains, and then, so quietly that perhaps America will not hear, "a long time ago."

"Do you want to hear about my dream or not?" America asks imperiously, sounding more like himself.

"Yes- no- go on," England tells him.

"So he says that to me, and then I say, 'Yeah!" because it makes sense in the dream, you know? And then..." He stops.

England glares at him.

"...and then I sort of..."

"What?" England demands impatiently.

"Nothing. That's where the dream stops," America says apologetically. And also a little shiftily.

"Well," England manages after a while. His throat is dry and his voice comes out as a hoarse rasp. He coughs. "Well, you're probably right about the stress thing."

"Yeah." America sounds a little forlorn.

After a while he comments, "Why does everyone hate me so much, England? I mean, I've really been trying. I've been trying so hard, but no one ever seems to appreciate it."

England shivers. He feels cold. "It's because they're afraid of you, idiot."

America blinks, eyes very wide and blue behind his glasses. England imagines they are reflecting the clear Virginia sky, imagines he can see clouds drifting past. "Why'd anyone be scared of me?" he asks, so puzzled and confused. "I'm the hero! Heroes don't hurt people."

England has to look away. "It's because you... damn it, even I admit it. You work hard. And you're good at what you do. And for a while nobody cared because you kept it to your own continent." He speaks to the grass, to the shrubs, to the classical white pillars of the Capitol building, shining blindingly in the sun. He shrugs. "Now you don't, any more."

"That's stupid," America says dismissively. England doesn't dare look at his face, so he can only guess the expression on it. "Hey, England. Can I ask you a question?"

"Why not," England snaps.

"Are you scared of me?"

England breathes deeply, turns around, and lies.

* * *

Notes!

Lady Liberty's classical origins are pretty obscure, but during the French Revolution she replaced the Virgin Mary on the altars in Notre Dame (which at the time had been renamed the "Cult of Reason")- and "Libertas" was worshiped during Roman times, her head often appearing on coins.

The Tennessee Centennial Exposition was very strange, but symbolic of the post-Reconstruction South. Nashville, the host town, liked to call itself "the Athens of the South", hence, the Parthenon. You can see a rebuilt version of it today- it's now a permanent museum.

The international community (ie the Europeans) thoroughly supported Spain during the Spanish-American war (at least the newspapers did, the countries themselves kind of ignored the whole thing out of embarrassment). Except England. Which led to this particularly tasty quote ala the _Libre Parole_:

_"Great Britain is the hypocritical partner of the United States. Their alliance against Spain is a disgrace; but it is just as well to have them work together now, since together they will have to render an account to international justice. The time is coming when Europe will no longer tolerate such miscreants and assassins as John Bull and Brother Jonathan."_

Well, I thought it was hilarious anyway.

Review this Story Report Possible Abuse Add Story to Favorites Add Story to Story Alert Add Author to Favorites Add Author to Author Alert Add Story to Community

Return to Top


End file.
